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thebatsandthebugs · 21 hours ago

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Stephanie Brown knows that love is truly endless. she has found it everywhere all throughout her life, with all the masks it likes to wear.

when she looks up at the night sky, she catches it in the way the moonlight washes over her, promising no nightmare is immune to waking up. love, Steph understands, is the arrogance to cling to the dream that a caped crusader might one day save her, too. when she looks at her mother, she spots it in her efforts to stay clean, in the endless amounts of forgiveness she offers her husband, in the worn sweaters passed down for warmth. love, Steph rationalizes, is a faithful act of trust that tastes like a lie. at times, when she looks in the mirror, she catches a glimpse of it in her own eyes, in how she was, once upon a time, a product of love, born brimming with plenty of it to share and open arms to receive it tenfold. love, Steph has come to terms with, starts with a dream and ends in insomnia.

the moves she uses to hop from rooftop to rooftop, those she started her own crusade with, allow her to head into the night and steal back what is hers. she wishes, however, she had learned from someone with a little more love in him. it wasn't the first time a mentor failed her; she'd prayed it'd be the last.

naïve, some might call her. isn't she allowed to head out into the night? find everything she wants in the thrills of a fight and the gratitude of her neighbours, tear herself down and start anew. maybe it is naïve, to scratch her wounds again just to check she can still bleed. what's so wrong about a spark burning deep in her chest, vivid and bright, flames she fans with hope and ambition and love?

why does everyone seem to want to put her fire out with ice? even the people she loves, even the people that love her. she has run away from home once, then twice, then thrice—each hurt more than the last. what was she to do? how else is she meant to find the space to burn alone?

Stephanie has been the centre of attention, the focus of suffering, and sometimes, neither of the two. she has invited kisses onto her lips and bruises onto her skin. she feeds faith into a city that rarely ever smiles back—she wants to believe in it, and at times, she wonders if it should just burn down and try again. she gave her heart to Gotham in hopes it would never give it back, but she had to watch as the black hand of self-righteous justice tore it from Gotham's throat to spit it back in her face.

it's all her fault, Steph ponders during sleepless nights. for chasing a daydream, a boy and a wonder, a legend, a vendetta. for being stupid, uneducated, cursed with the blood of a criminal. for looking left and right, witnessing the cruelty of the world, and still bringing life into it before she could make a proper difference.

her fingers tend to find their way to her abdomen, tracing absentmindedly over the protruding scar she never quite took care of. it's a ghost pain, sometimes far too tender, but she had looked in the mirror and decided, upon another mistake, to keep the physical proof that she had lived and loved her child.

for better or for worse, that was love, too. twisted in a way, ungrateful and unkind, but love nonetheless, because that is all Steph had to give. not stability, not trust, not motherhood. only love; enough of it to let her baby have more of a chance than she ever did.

she hopes, she prays, she begs for that baby, living in the back of her mind, to receive all the love she couldn't give them, all the support they will ever need. she makes wishes on their birthday that the world looks at them and is kind, that the stars come out every night to draw beautiful constellations just for them. because Steph knows, deep in her gut, that every time she gazes up at the moon, its light shines past billowing curtains into the room of a sleeping child, maybe a charming girl with her hair and her zeal, meeting her mother in her dreams with a smile.

it's dissonant at times.

Steph knows her mother loves her, because she remembers watching her grieve a daughter, and what is grief if not love without a home to rest? her grieving mother, relapsing out of desperation, all alone in a house once full of exploding bottles and bouts of laughter. (Stephanie knows about grieving mothers, after all, she has been one since the moment she made her choice.)

that grief goes both ways, however; that grief Steph has to share with her father. maybe it's selfish, but although she can forgive, she rarely forgets.

she lashes out, she knows, and her heart squeezes in her chest until she suffocates. she asks, "Mom, what did we lose?" because truly, what did they lose? nothing but a sorry excuse for a man, sometimes weak, sometimes evil, who needed his teenage daughter to teach him how to be a hero and still couldn't learn.

love is the resentment burning in her chest. she hates the bitter taste on her tongue, but it's stronger than her. posters on the wall and a haven tucked under her bed, she grew up with the weight of two adults' mistakes on her back.

"baby, i'm proud of you," Crystal says, and her touch is tender when her hands cup her face. "i love you."

and although Steph knows it's true, Steph has seen it's true, Steph has felt it's true, she can't help but wonder why this is only reaching her now that she has outgrown it. perhaps she didn't deserve it when she was a child, sitting alone on cold roof tiles and finding constellations of her own in the stars. she hadn't been worthy of it yet—she hadn't shown the world why she should be owed a place in it.

so she leans into her mother's palm, smiling down at her and whispering, "i know. i love you, too." she nods her head, humming softly, "i'm sorry i've been such a disappointment."

"oh, honey…" Crystal shakes her head. she pulls her daughter closer to press a kiss to her forehead. "against all odds, you've become a wonderful person. you could never disappoint me." heart to heart, beat to beat, she holds Steph with love in her eyes. "i'm sorry i failed you."

it burns in Steph's chest and clogs up her throat. the resentment, the knowledge that her pain came from her mother's suffering, both a consequence and a decision, and still she would do anything to keep her safe, to protect her happiness. among all the bitter caretaking she's had to step up to, lie buried affections and forgiveness. she loves her mother, she always will, even if they've both died on each other's swords at the cost of a relapse and a double life.

giving into mistakes of the past would make her a coward. she has grown up on trembling knees and callused fingers. she has helped her mother walk the streets again with grief on their faces.

Stephanie Brown loves Crystal, more than she will ever blame her, more than she will ever forgive her. (more than she will ever let her see the suit hiding in her closet.)

other times, it's stubborn.

there's a picture stuck to the headboard of her bed. it's stupid, she knows, but it still makes her smile. it's barely discernible, a little blurry, but she can easily make out Robin's domino mask. she had shoved her phone in Tim's face when sneaking up on him, then called him a cryptid when seeing the results. Tim had kissed her. once home, she'd printed it out and put it up as decoration.

she can't bring herself to pull it down.

love is the lost war between kisses and laughter. Tim, for his part, is a stray bullet. she knows he loved her, probably still does; she's seen it in the twitch of his fingers, bouncing on his thigh like hers had done once. she's also seen it in his misguided attempts to keep her off the streets time and time again.

Steph is no stranger to underestimation. she's gotten barked at one too many times. Tim is no exception. sometimes, she wishes he were.

it started with thrills and masks (and a brick to the face), and it ended with radio silence and mistakes. it had been light, inexperienced, messy, and mostly, it had been love. first times are sometimes sour, sometimes sweet. Robin had been sour, Tim had been sweet.

every kiss felt new, and at some point, it had been a game, like playing tag in a school playground. "this is unfair," he had said, and she scrambled to hold onto him tight before he could withdraw. because maybe it was unfair to her, maybe it was wrong, maybe she should have turned and found someone who would show her their face.

"this is enough," she had argued, clinging to the validation, the sensations, and the hopes that a hero would stay. why would he, when Robin is so good and Spoiler is lower than low?

it had not been enough, however. love is much more than chemistry and the laws of physics, adrenaline pumping through her veins and the fire in her eyes when Robin calls her by her name on the field. she loathes it, time and time again, how he holds her like an open book on the table and she has nothing but the sound of his voice. she couldn't pick him out of a crowd if she tried, and sometimes, she doesn't want to try.

first times leave, because love is change, and Steph holds so much of it that she knows this first-hand. she sees it in the way Tim's eyes burn when she calls him by his name, when they stand on equal ground for the first time, when she holds the same amount of power over him that he does her. he's angry, but the mistake (for once) isn't hers, so although his words are biting, she believes him when he says he's not mad at her. (Tim is too good to be angry, anyway.)

love is staying, much more than just falling into it. love is giving and giving and giving. she gives Tim her time and her attention, and somehow, by some miracle, she receives it in turn. he holds her hand and he meets her baby. he listens and he advises and he loves her. she know he does and so does she.

still, it is not enough.

something gnaws at her, tapping her on the back on the head, while she's wearing a domino and a yellow cape, while she's back in her own scraps and patchwork uniform. it's why she lies, why she doesn't want to worry him, why she makes him worry anyway, why she never listens.

Stephanie Brown loves Tim, she really does, and she's always believed him when he's told her the same. she knows, however, that he will never chase after her the same way she's done him. (why would he, when Tim is so good and Steph is lower than low?)

it's also inconsistent.

Steph considers maybe, just maybe, she's damned if she does and damned if she doesn't. she loves Cass, at times more than Cass will ever love herself. it slips from her tongue when the city is quiet and Cass admits to her alienation. she makes it sound like a fault and Steph can't help herself, the rush of being more than someone so great, so she laughs, "i finally beat you at something!"

it's all grins and giggles, two teenage girls sitting on top of the world to share anecdotes and hold hands. she sees the warmth on her cheeks, and although she laughs, Steph wonders if she's kicking her while she's down. can Cass even go down? as she swings her feet in the air and gazes up at the stars, she considers offering a kiss, to teach Cass something, to give back all the training she's learned, to share something they can both win at.

but Cass' love, albeit bountiful, burns brighter for Batman than it does for Steph.

in her absence, Cass falls apart. in her presence, Cass fights double. Steph wonders what she's got to do to be welcomed into the kingdom. she's got nothing to lose if nothing she brings to the table is worthy of inclusion. she knows love is that beauty, the one in the cosmos overseeing two girls turning their backs on each other, nourished by unadulterated sadness. it's all the words stuck in her throat that she wishes she could explain. it's watching the corpse of her trust parade in front of her and fly away with a bat.

it is, most importantly, coming back every chance she gets. learning Cass' language and sharing conversations, wiping sweat off her brow and lying flat on the floor together. the voice in the back of her head telling her to get up and continue fighting, to stand alongside someone who believes in the symbol as much as her even if she doesn't believe in her.

the sting remains, the knowledge that Cass won't trust her to make the right decisions for herself. it's bitter, because where Steph would never let go of her hands, Cass tries to shake her off in hopes to save her. "no," is all she says, hand shooting out to strike, "dangerous."

but Steph has memorized that nerve strike like lines on a poem, so she dodges, she bites back. (she got lucky, she thinks, but she'll take it.) "i can fight, i've been training! you don't have to—"

"armed," Cass states, and her hand moves again. this hit lands perfectly, and by the time Steph is awake again, the fight is over.

Cass is bruised, bleeding, and clueless. she grabs Steph's fire with her bare hands to try and save it, afraid of the ashes, suffocating it in turn. she doesn't understand that love means if she gets burned, so does Steph.

Stephanie Brown loves Cass more than she will ever be able to fathom. she's always willing and trying to give it back, but she has yet to learn how while Steph continues to fill her cup with her own. (she's lucky love is endless.)

part of her knows, in one way or another, that love is real in Batman—in Bruce, now that she knows who is under the cowl. it exists in the way he fights to save Gotham from itself—it has since before she'd looked to the moon for his shadow. she also knows Batman has hit her one too many times, has ruined her life the same way her father has, has done it all in a way that does not scream love to her, only egomaniacal selfishness.

it killed her, it forced her to run away, to leave her home, her family, her overflowing love. even then, in the face of her death, nobody spared her a drop of love to commemorate her. no display case for her suit, simply a poor excuse from the detective work of a loveless man. she gets it, she really does; who mourns a means to an end?

Stephanie Brown knows that the opposite of love is not hatred—there are worse things than hatred. apathy, however, burns like acid on skin. she would know, she's seen Batman's face, she's heard his voice, firing her not once, but twice. and when she's slipping, when she's going under, when she starts understanding that she cannot stay any longer, it's his voice in her ear and the blurry sight of that stoic frown under the cowl. what a way to go, she thought, all alone in Batman's presence. she'd wished for her mother, for Tim, for Cass, she would have even taken Helena, but she had too much love overflowing from her wounds and only an icy legend's apathy could balance it out.

he had come to her, she remembers, making promises he couldn't keep and dropping her the moment he started to regret it. she knows it's her fault, it always is; she failed his tests and couldn't measure up to his expectations. it wasn't perfect—it was never meant to be perfect. she wasn't supposed to get a fair shot, so she didn't, even when in green gloves and a domino. he knew he'd come to regret and he still followed through. then he hid in his mask and ran from the consequences he didn't want to reap.

but Steph gets up, for love and for hope, and she puts on the costume one more day.

she has fought to heal and come to terms with her reality, with her life, with what is owed to her, with what was stolen from her, with what she deserves, with what she got. she has died and she has been reborn, and she still holds all she knows as love in spite of how many times her heart has been thrown back in her face.

Stephanie Brown knows love is real in herself.

she'd been free at last, away from abuse and manipulation, but she's so full of love for that city, for her friends, for her family, for her home that she chose to put the shackles back on, her eggplant hood and cape, and she returned to face everything left unturned.

"if something's not working, change it. take control." was that Cass? or was that herself? that voice in her head, her imagination and a yellow bat on someone else's chest. she wears it now, has made it her own, and she'll fight tooth and nail to keep it one more night. it's been a long uphill battle, grappling with her roots, with the blood in her veins, with her decisions and her mistakes, with her potential and her skills.

she's come out on top—on top of her wit and her brain, on top of people's doubts and disappointment, and she will always, always love Spoiler, love Stephanie Brown like no one else will. the sky and the ocean may turn against her, but no one, not a mother nor a relapse, not a father nor a riddle, not a bat nor apathy, no one can steal her away from herself again.

she'll say it once, she'll say it a million times: she's Robin, she's Batgirl, she's Spoiler. she is Stephanie Brown, and she loves, she loves, she loves.

#this is so fucking beautiful holy shit

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